ARMYs are the ones who've stood by our side since our difficult

Host: The night settled softly over the rooftops, a tender darkness stitched with city lights and the distant hum of traffic. From a balcony overlooking the glittering streets, Jack and Jeeny sat wrapped in blankets, a portable speaker playing a faint melody — one of those songs that carry too many memories to be just music.

A poster on the wall, half-torn by time and rain, bore the faces of seven young men, smiling beneath a burst of confetti. Their eyes — fierce, exhausted, alive — seemed to watch the world below with a mixture of gratitude and wonder.

Host: The air was thick with nostalgia, the kind that hurts just enough to feel beautiful.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know what he said once? Kim Tae-hyung — V from BTS — he said, ‘ARMYs are the ones who’ve stood by our side since our difficult days, who’ve shared our joy and sadness, who know us best.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “I’ve read that. It’s… strangely sincere for someone who lives under so much spotlight.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing, isn’t it? People think fame is about adoration, but for them, it’s about connection. He didn’t say, ‘They love us.’ He said, ‘They know us.’ That’s different.”

Jack: “Knowing someone through screens and songs — is that knowing, Jeeny? Or is it just an illusion that makes people feel seen without really seeing?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s what happens when art becomes a kind of shared memory.”

Host: The wind stirred a strand of her hair, lifting it across her face. Jack watched, his eyes reflecting the city’s lights — distant, yet curious, as though trying to understand something too human for logic.

Jack: “I get the sentiment. Loyalty. Gratitude. But the way he says it — ‘ARMYs are the ones who’ve stood by our side’ — it sounds almost… religious. Like a new kind of faith, built on music instead of miracles.”

Jeeny: “Is that so bad? Faith doesn’t have to be about gods. Sometimes it’s about believing in people — watching them grow, fail, rise, and still staying. Isn’t that the purest kind of devotion?”

Jack: “Devotion is dangerous, Jeeny. History’s full of it. Crowds worship, then consume what they worship. One day they cheer your name, the next, they burn your image. The line between fandom and fever is thin.”

Jeeny: “But you’re talking about obsession, not love. There’s a difference. The ARMYs — they didn’t just follow; they protected. They translated, defended, donated. They became an echo of what those boys were trying to say — that even in a world of noise, empathy still matters.”

Host: Her words floated through the air, gentle but certain, like the rise of a melody before a chorus.

Jack: “You sound like you’re one of them.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe I am. Maybe not in the way you think. But I’ve seen what they’ve done — the charities, the projects, the letters. You know what that is? It’s not just adoration. It’s community. It’s millions of strangers realizing they can care about something together.”

Jack: “That’s what scares me — that together can mean dependent. When a crowd thinks it ‘knows’ you, it starts to own you. Look what happened to Elvis, to Amy Winehouse, to Kurt Cobain. The love that lifts you up eventually strangles you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why BTS keeps talking about ARMY — to remind themselves that they’re seen, not owned. Tae-hyung didn’t say, ‘They made us who we are.’ He said, ‘They stood by us.’ There’s humility in that. Equality, even.”

Jack: “Equality between the stage and the seats? That’s a nice fantasy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not fantasy. It’s evolution. Art used to separate — artist and audience. Now it connects. Maybe that’s the future: no kings, no fans — just shared stories.”

Host: The city lights below blinked, like a thousand tiny hearts, each beating in sync. Somewhere, a song played from a car passing by — a familiar tune, filled with longing and light.

Jack: “You think connection like that can last? When the spotlight fades? When the hashtags die?”

Jeeny: “It already has. Do you know why people still talk about them? Not because of the charts or the trophies. But because they made love feel like language, not performance. Tae-hyung’s quote — it’s not about fandom, it’s about family.”

Jack: “Family’s not made through songs, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it can be found through them. When you sing a line that says, ‘You’re not alone,’ and someone on the other side of the world feels it — isn’t that what family means?”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe it’s what it used to mean.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s what it always will.”

Host: The rain began to fall — not heavy, just enough to soften the edges of the world. Jack reached out, caught a drop on his hand, watched it glisten in the streetlight, and smiled, almost ashamed of the tenderness it made him feel.

Jack: “So you think loyalty like that can exist outside music?”

Jeeny: “It can exist anywhere people choose to stay, even when it’s hard. BTS had their ‘difficult days,’ and the ARMYs stayed. That’s what makes it sacred — not the fame, but the staying.”

Jack: “Staying — in a world built on scrolling and leaving. Maybe that is art.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the art of devotion, Jack. The art of not giving up.”

Host: The rain quickened, drumming softly on the balcony’s rail, like applause from a distant crowd. The city below glowed, alive and endless, a canvas of faces, screens, and songs that had all, somehow, become one.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Warhol once said land is the best art. But I think love is. The kind that stays. The kind that remembers. That’s what Tae-hyung meant.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “So the fans are the art now?”

Jeeny: “No. The relationship is. The invisible thread — that’s the masterpiece.”

Host: The music in the background swelled, the chorus rising, echoing through the night. Jack and Jeeny didn’t speak again. They just listened, their silhouettes outlined by the neon glow, as if the world itself had paused to hear the song too.

And in that quiet, between the beats, they both understood —

That fame fades, but faith remains.
That crowds change, but connection endures.
And that the truest kind of art is not the one you perform,
But the one you build — together, in trust, in time, in tenderness.

Host: The rain fell, the lights shimmered, and far below, a group of voices sang together in the dark, not as fans, not as idols, but as humans — knowing, staying, believing.